I have a bird in my mouth. He can’t get out. His wings and head keep struggling. Everybody notices bulges in my cheeks and asks what’s wrong. Rfmmrmff I say. I can’t seem to open my mouth wide enough for him to get more than a foot or some feathers to poke out. I go to a doctor. I can’t really breathe that well. The doctor believes in talk therapy. The doctor says bird why are you in this woman’s mouth. The bird doesn’t respond, but his head appears and I can see this all from a mirror on the wall of the office. The bird points its head at the doctor and opens its mouth and there is a bird in the bird’s mouth. Apparently I am the largest Matryoshka doll. The doctor asks the bird in the bird’s mouth why it is in the bird’s mouth, but the bird is still so small, just a baby. He opens his tiny beak and inside there is a grain of rice. The doctor removes the grain of rice with a pair of tweezers, which I give him from my purse. My jaw hurts something awful by this point. The grain of rice has something written on it in a tiny, steady hand. I give the doctor a magnifying glass from my purse as well. He reads the inscription aloud and it says each of us is but a child of God.
To read more poems by Russ Woods, please purchase the issue here.
